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“Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
“Then come here,” he said, pushing out the chair beside him.
Deciding to obey just this once, I crossed the hot deck and sank into the seat to his left. Faster than I could react, he bent and I felt a metal cuff clip around my leg. I jerked, gasping, and yanked my ankle. A little shock of pain moved up my calf.
He’d cuffed me to the table. The fucking bastard.
“How dare you,” I hissed.
“I don’t feel like chasing you around,” he said, sinking back. “This is just insurance that you’ll sit there, be good, and we can have a civil dinner together.”
I grasped for words, but just then we were interrupted by the housekeeper appearing and setting down a tray of food. She lifted the lids to reveal a plate of fruit and vegetables, hard, flat crackers and bread, spiced oil, olives, cheese, and cold fish and chicken. My stomach rumbled.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked pleasantly.
“Fine,” I said, eyes still on the food.
He rose, his lean body bending over the table to lift a bottle of red wine. He poured a little splash in a glass, like we were in a five-star restaurant, and set it down before me. Then, with his bare fingers, he filled my plate with a little of everything and set it before me.
Deciding I was too hungry to be grossed out by him touching my food, I bit into a crusty, warm piece of bread and brie cheese. He sat down with his own plate, shifting his chair so he could face me. We ate in silence and when we were done, he refilled our wine glasses and the housekeeper took our plates away.
“How old are you, Iris?” he said.
I glanced up. “Why?”
“I’m gathering data on my prisoner.”
“Oh, okay,” I said sarcastically. “I’m twenty-one. I had my birthday a few weeks ago.”
His face didn’t change, but his brow rose. “Alright, that makes more sense. I thought you were older because you were traveling alone.”
I paused, staring at him. “What?”
He reached into his pocket and I tensed, but when he withdrew it all he had was a cigarillo. I watched him closely as he bent, cupping it to his mouth, and lit it. Breathing in the pleasant, earthy smoke and expelling it up into the sky.
“You’re still a virgin,” he said.
My body went still and a hot, humiliated flush crept up my cheeks.
“No, I’m not,” I lied quickly.
“Either you had sex with a man who was blessed with a very small dick or you didn’t have sex at all.”
“Oh my God, you’re disgusting. How would you even know?”
He cocked his head, putting the cigarillo to his lips. “Because I ate you out and you didn’t want me to fuck you. So I checked and you appear to be virgin.”
The heat radiating off my face intensified, seeping down my neck and making my throat flush. I gathered myself as well as I could, lifting my wine glass and taking a sip. Hoping it would stabilize me.
“You are sick,” I said coolly.
“You weren’t truthful with me when we had sex,” he shot back.
“We didn’t have sex,” I protested.
“We had oral sex,” he said. “We were intimate and I went into it thinking you were acquainted with casual sex and you let me think that. It wasn’t until I realized you still have your hymen that I knew I must have been an exception.”
